


maybe, possibly

by candycity



Category: Ao Haru Ride
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candycity/pseuds/candycity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer again, and Kou contemplates what could have been, and what might be, in the future. </p><p>( But reality doesn't work like that, you know. )</p><p>Futaba/Kou.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe, possibly

It's seven o'clock. 

He listens to his parents screaming in the other room, and closes his eyes. 

He gazes out of the window. It's nearly seven o'clock; the blue of the sky ebbs to a pale lilac, and finally a deep indigo. The screaming eases and stops. 

He thinks of her. Would she have went? What if she was still waiting for him? Would she be getting cold, or wondering if she'd misunderstood, or that it'd been a prank? 

The thought of a fragile figure, standing alone against the backdrop of summer lights and evening shadow, makes his stomach twist.

He glances over to his bed, where his carefully chosen outfit, painstakingly ironed, is laid out. 

Never to be worn. 

 

It's been five years. 

The first time he sees her, he feels his body recoil in shock. She's filled out somewhat, the sharp edges of her elbows and her hips hidden behind soft curves that radiate feminity. Yet there is a hardness to her expression, a defiance and a wariness that is so different from the Yoshioka from his memory. There is something forced in her laughter, and the way she takes slightly bigger steps than necessary, the way she swings her bag over her shoulder, is casual - too casual. 

He feels - and it's unfair, it's unwarranted, it's not her fault - but he feels a sense of heavy disappointment. 

( He thinks maybe a part of him was hoping she wouldn't have changed at all. )

 

It's seven o'clock. 

The scene is eerily familiar. He sits in his room, gazing out of the window. The festival lights shine in the distance; a set of clothes, carefully picked out and painstakingly ironed, lies on the bed. 

He wonders if she's going, this year. 

If she's twirling around in her yukata, or laughing with her friends in a pretty dress, for which she makes excuse -- "my mum bought it for me, she insisted, it's so not my type, though." Stuffing herself with candy apples and takoyaki in her stupid pretense; her friends shaking their heads, telling her, if only you'd dress up more often, you'd be so popular - inwardly sighing in relief. If she glances at the clock as she walks home, memories of that night never quite having faded away. 

He wonders if she'd tell her friends to go on ahead, and hang around behind for a few minutes; waiting for a boy that would never show up, thinking back to the date that would never happen. He thinks of that lone figure standing in front of the clock, and that familiar ache returns to his chest. 

But this is not five years before. This is now. 

He can never return to the past, that first seven o'clock. 

Maybe, tomorrow, they'd finally cross paths and she'd finally notice that he'd returned. Her eyes would widen, her lips part in surprise. He'd give her a small smile, and that afternoon, it'd start raining, and they'd both end up seeking shelter at the shrine. 

Maybe she'd ask, wonderingly - "Tanaka-kun, is that you?" - and he'd smile and reply, "It's Mabuchi, now." He'd apologise for never turning up and explain why - she'd forgive him, and they'd walk home together. 

And then maybe they'd create a new story together, a new happily ever after, a new seven o'clock. 

 

Or maybe not. 

Real life doesn't work that way, after all. 

He glances at the bed. Outfit chosen, prepared, laid out: carefully, painstakingly. 

( Never to be worn. )


End file.
